


Act I

by AtomicPen



Series: Wings Straight and Swift Will Bring Us Home [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: 100 Days of Fic, 100 Days of Sebastian, Act I, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Ficlet Sequence, Ficlets, Gen, Kirkwall, Other, fics, relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-11
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-22 21:28:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 7,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/918214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtomicPen/pseuds/AtomicPen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>When a rock is dropped into the middle of a pond, there is no one that can stop the ripples from reaching the banks.</i>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <i>series of short ficlets from my tumblr's 100 Days of Fic challenge <a href="http://atomicpen.tumbltr.com/prompts">masterlist</a>, in chronological order, following Sebastian at various points throughout the first Act</i>
  <br/>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Magic

When he had first arrived, there was much he didn’t notice. Over time and acceptance and a softening he never thought would ease his heart, Sebastian found himself lost in observation more and more often. Distracted while in the middle of chores regularly, he felt he finally was beginning to understand why his grandfather once said he wanted nothing more than a life of reflection in the Maker’s service.

He was no mage, and had never really been around magic, but Sebastian began to believe not all magic was only held within spells.

The notion first struck him in the grey-lit hours of morning that found him outside in the Chantry gardens, clouds forming a mottled canopy in the sky that caught the first purple-red rays of the awakening sun in its puckered breadth. The silhouettes of birds he could not name climbed the sky above a growing triangle of light, and the calm in the air, the stillness of everything else in that heartbeat made the breath stop in Sebastian’s throat, caught on a sudden lump. It was the first time the thought came unbidden that the world truly was an amazing creation of the Maker’s.

After that, other things—otherwise mundane things he never noticed much before—started grasping him like that, a quickening of his heart and a spreading sense of wonder in his chest. The way the light caught on dew drops on leaves or a spider’s web spun between branches after a rain; the way the echoes of the Chant being sung drifted out to the gardens like a gossamer beckon; the look of peace he saw on the faces of so many who quietly walked through the nave of the Chantry; the candles that softly illuminated hallowed halls. Even the way the spread of soap and water when he helped mop the marble floors caught sunlight and reflected a thousand tiny rainbows through the bubbles, the motes of dust billowing up into the air from cleaning out old rooms and how they danced in the slants of light. The looks exchanged between lovers as they wed, or from new parents to their infant, brought into the Chantry for the first time.

There was magic in these things, Sebastian knew over time, the magic of the Maker—and none of it frightening. He took to reflecting upon that idea, that perhaps if others could see the magic he now did, they might fear it less.


	2. White

It hadn't been his first choice. Then again, nothing ever was. He supposed he should be thankful his father had even given him a parting gift. And it was beautifully wrought, Sebastian had to admit. It was also very, very white. Not exactly the best armour for skulking around in shadows, as Sebastian had found he had a talent for.

Then again, that was probably the precise reason his father had given him white armour.

Half of him wanted to take it as a good metaphor and gesture, that he had been left ignored and unseen for too long, and now he was supposed to stand out. But the realist in him wagered it was more because his father didn't want his son involved in any more clandestine affairs, and decided trying to guilt him into avoiding such situations and people with a gift was the best--and most subtle--way of doing so.

But, he had to admit, it was very good armour. And, after a few years of wearing it and polishing it, he noticed that it did get him more attention, and it wasn't at all the bad kind. He could easily admit to using the level of quality in his gift more than once to persuade some young Kirkwaller into his bed. It worked almost as well as thickening his brogue.

When he tried to run away from the Chantry, he had bundled it up in a blanket and left it in his small cell. Where he wanted to go, he didn't want to be seen or identified. He wanted to get away from his holy prison and leave it all behind--expensive, custom armour be damned. After he had come back of his own accord, however, the armour became to him like a hair shirt was to a monk. It reminded him of how dark his past was, and that, despite whatever motive his father originally had, his parents had thought of enough him to provide superior armour in parting. And, after his parents' murders, it was one of the few things he had remaining of them. Even with all it could have meant, he also could not deny its practical use, despite the effervescent gleam it seemed to never fail to have in any kind of light. It was like being surrounded by a halo, and, for a long while, that actually served to comfort him.

And then there came Hawke.


	3. Turn

He was always catching her around corners. Never did he see her simply walking down the street straight toward him or away from him (not that he thought she even recognised him), not since that very first time he saw her. He turned away from the Chantry board in a rage and had seen her standing off to the side, but was too caught up in anger to let his eyes linger on her for long. He only allowed himself another moment of that as he stormed past her, away from the board and away from the Chantry.

Little did he know he’d continue to catch glimpses of her.

He’d round a path in Hightown, and forget where it was he had been heading at the time for a moment, as a flash of her hair, or glint of her armour, or the sound of her voice (rarely true laughter, he noticed over time) caught his eye. After this had been going on a while, he was worried she might think he was stalking her (though, despite all his happy years in the Chantry, he would never balk at the idea of her stalking him), rather than happening to always seem to be in the same area as her. She never said anything to him, however, nor even half the time turned eyes his way. When they did, though…

Perhaps, he mused, now the murder of his family wasn’t the only reason to reconsider taking his vows again.


	4. Seal

It was the little things sometimes, Sebastian decided. It was the little things that mattered. He was of little consequence to the majority of his immediate family, and so the old family sigil was of little use to the third son. Two elder brothers already were using it, and it was confusing enough with two of the same standards on the field--though Cameron's was the true Vael standard, while Mathe's was the same design but with inverted colours. Sebastian saw no need to muck things up further by bringing yet a third minor deviation to the Vael sigil. Sometimes it was the little things, but other times, it was the big things.

His mother shrieked in anger when she saw it, and his father scowled at him angrily. Yet another disappointment in their third son, but Sebastian was learning to wear that disapproval proudly. He had sauntered into the main hall--a cocky thirteen, thinking he knew well enough to take on the world--wearing a different surcoat than the rest of the Vaels. He had snuck out and commissioned a seamstress travelling on the Minanter to embroider a design for him. He wore it proudly, and lifted his chin a little higher and straightened his shoulders a little more every time he heard someone mutter about the insolent youngest Vael boy. Changing the colours of a family's sigil and field was one thing, and it was to be expected when there was more than one son, but _changing it entirely_? A scandal from his birth, Sebastian never failed to satisfy that part of his life.

The only person he worried about was his grandfather, and what the elder Vael would think. Sebastian watched his grandsire out of the corner of his eye and saw the old man look his new surcoat up and down, pausing on the falcon, in blue dark as the deepest part of the Minanter, that was the centre of attention. It was made from entwining lines of knotwork, and was something Sebastian was actually proud of doing himself. The seamstress did fine work, too, and it was worth the three gold she had asked for--at least he thought so. After a moment, Gawain Vael have a small nod that was only for his grandson, who let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding.

If he had his grandfather's seal of approval on his own sigil, that's all he needed. It was a good thing, considering he was already ordering for his own sealers and dark blue wax to go along with them. Now everyone would know which letters were his, even over his brothers'. Even over his father's.

He never imaged, years and years later, he would be using those very same seals to send missives in the hopes of finding his family's murderers.


	5. Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **tw: blood and gore, survivor's guilt**

They were in his dreams almost every night, now. First, they had just been memories playing out. When he caught a fish from the Minanter the first time, and his father actually smiled at him. The third time his mother had caught him sneaking out of his room past his curfew and had been so angry, she boxed his ears herself. His brothers and their pranks--some of which included him, most of which were on him.

As the years started to pass their murders by, and he still hadn't avenged them, the dreams twisted and warped. Sometimes he killed them. More often, he watched as they died, spouting blood from their necks and wrists and guts. The more time that passed, the worse their deaths became, the less he was able to move. Every time, his body was frozen--sometimes he could feel people holding him back, sometimes he couldn't seem to convince himself to move, sometimes he felt paralysed, rooted to the ground. Every time, his brothers, his mother, his father--even his grandfather, who had been in the ground five years before the murders--all reached for him, pleaded for him, cursed him, spit blood at him. Once, they were all in a pit, bleeding and trying to climb out, but the walls of the oubliette were too smooth for handholds, and they tore their nails off trying to escape, leaving red tracks along the walls. Sebastian got to the edge, but couldn't reach them when he tried to help.

The worst was when he was the one in the pit, and the all stood over him, dripping lifeblood into the hole he was in until he drowned in it. He had awoken drenched in sweat and wrapped up in his sheet, hands clenching the thin cloth with white knuckles. He couldn't remember a time when he didn't dream about them, now. All his dreams were painted red, and he felt powerless as ever to do anything about it. He wasn't there when his grandfather, the only one that had truly mattered to him, had died, and he wasn't there when the rest of his family had been murdered. It could very well have been that Sebastian would have been slaughtered along with the rest of them, but he wasn't sure that would have been a bad thing. What if him being there would have saved at least one of them from death? He was the only Vael that had any skills in stealth and skulking, the only Vael left alive that had any precision ranged ability. Both his brothers--cruel and thoughtless as they were to him--were worth more than him, and both were at least better suited than he ever would be to rule and lead the people of Starkhaven. How could have he, the last, the unwanted, the scoundrel of the family, have been spared and they had been butchered like pigs in a pen?

The only reason he had been spared was because he wasn't good enough, like the rest of them. He was a constant shame to them, and now he was the only one left alive. And he couldn't even avenge them. Three years after their murders, and he still didn't know who hired Flint Company. Sure, the mercenaries had been dealt with and killed themselves, but it left a bitter taste in his mouth--almost enough to drown out the constant iron he tasted. Killing the mercenaries was just as worthless as killing the messenger. At least both mercenary and messenger could get their jobs done. He didn't seem to be able to do even that--and blood was supposed to be thicker than water and worth more than gold.

His inaction, his disregard for them, his inability to have been a better son and done something to prevent or stop their murders, and now his inability to get to the source of who ordered their deaths--all those put the blood on his hands just as much as the ones who had done the killing.

Sometimes, he felt he wore gloves more to keep himself from seeing his family's blood on his fingers than anything else.


	6. Letters

_Messere,_

_As I am sure you are aware of this grievous news, I will not reiterate the facts of the assassinations of my family. I hope with all the sincerity the Maker has shown me that you are able to keep the things that happened in the past between myself and certain parties of your estate in the past--_

His hand wavered over the parchment, his hesitation so long that several drops of ink fell from the quill to spatter the paper. It was no matter. This copy was the worst of all of them, he decided suddenly, setting the quill back in the ink jar and tearing the parchment up in swift jerks of his hands. Immediately afterward, however, Sebastian let out an exasperated breath and gave the torn paper an apologetic glance.

"Still the spoiled prince," he muttered to himself. "What a waste." Even he was unsure whether he meant more the parchment or himself.

Steading his breathing, he rubbed the bottom half of his face with ink-blotted fingers, not caring if they left smudges behind in their wake. He had yet to settle on a single letter draft, and had began at least half a dozen. His discards lay in crumpled piles scattered about his small writing desk, the only bit of clutter in his otherwise spartan sleeping cell.

He wanted to send letters before he set out to the other Marcher cities--especially since there were quite a few nobles he wanted to visit in each of them whom he had more or less nigh-irrevocably insulted when he was younger. But balancing broaching the subject of his family's murders, his repentance over any and all misdeeds he conducted against them all, and his desire to gain them as an ally for retaking his home back was proving to be more difficult than he initially imagined.

But no. He must not falter, his resolve must remain. His parents, his brothers and their wives, his niece and nephews... he will not let them to have died unavenged and in vain. He would take back the principality and hold it for their sakes, if nothing else. He owed them that much. If he had to, he would show up on every politician's doorstep with no warning. He had always been better at begging forgiveness rather than asking permission, anyhow. 

"Ah, well," he conceded to himself, standing and abandoning his remaining parchment. "I suppose I'd better get packing then."


	7. Picture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **continuation of[letters](http://archiveofourown.org/works/908819/chapters/1760266)**

Hawke was well into the Deep Roads, he was sure. Fretting over someone he had only met once (officially, anyway; he didn't think he should count all the sundry times he had caught a glimpse of her moving through Hightown) was only just this side of inappropriate, and she seemed capable enough to be able to make it through the Roads all right. He hoped. So, two weeks into her expedition, Sebastian himself had business to attend to outside of Kirkwall.

It felt good, he had to admit to himself, to be out of the city and back into the Marches again. It felt good not to have stone surrounding him all the time, and to see the Vimmark Mountains on the horizon. But he was not about in order to sight-see. He fingered the small picture frame in one of his belt pouches, one of the few possessions he had brought with him to Kirkwall when he first came. It contained a small painting of his grandmother. He often wished his grandparents would have been his parents instead of those who were; he felt he had connected more with them than anyone else in his family.

They were for whom he did this. They weren't murdered, but their memories were still intrinsically tied to those who were, and he would not, could not let that stand. He would see his whole family avenged for the resting peace of a few.


	8. Trepidation

There was no reason for it. There shouldn’t be, anyway. He had only met her once, after all—passing by her didn’t count, else he would have lost track of all the times by now. But, when he had inquired after the Deep Roads Expedition he had heard so much talk about, and found out that she had gone on it, as well, his throat had tightened and his heart had quickened its pace. The Deep Roads were dangerous, teeming with darkspawn, and old and worn, besides. He did not lack faith in dwarven tunnels, of course, but everything weakens with age. How long had the Deep Roads been around?

He shook his head. Sebastian had no cause, no right, to be so worried over her. She had disposed of the Flint Company mercenaries that had murdered his family, and in return for her service, he had rewarded her. Yet, every time he thought about her in those vast caverns, his heart raced. How long had she been gone? Two weeks? Three? There had been no word, that was for sure; most people who knew about the Expedition in Kirkwall were waiting on almost bated breath for news. Surely if there had been news, everyone would hear about it.

He found himself scrubbing over the same spot for the past five minutes. Letting out a breath and pausing, Sebastian sat back on his heels. What was wrong with him? Worrying over a woman he had only met once (but seen countless times, he thought again), seemed more than the simple samaritanism he was trying desperately to convince himself it was.

With a sharp shake of his head, he leaned back into his work. He couldn’t be wringing his hands over every beautiful woman that caught his eyes who also happened to be capable enough to dispose of an entire band of mercenaries when she vanished on a possible suicide mission into the Deep Roads.

And he still couldn’t keep his heart from clenching when he thought she might not come back, still couldn’t keep his thoughts and prayers from drifting to her every night before he fell asleep.


	9. Tonic

When he first started joining Hawke on her excursions and jobs and missions, he was surprised at the variety of her companions. A merchant dwarf, a fellow Ferelden who was now part of the Kirkwall guard, a pirate captain without her ship, a former Tevinter elf-slave with powerful lyrium tattoos, and not one, but two apostates--one of whom was an elven blood mage. Of course, Sebastian hadn't known that at first, but after being in a few fights with Merrill, it was easy to guess at it. He had never been around mages often--his parents never let any of their children near the Circle in Starkhaven, even their youngest. But, he couldn't find it in himself to actually dislike her even with the blood magic, no matter how much he told himself he probably should; she was just so... adorably nice. And then there was himself--the remaining true heir to the Starkhaven throne, and a brother to the Chantry.

The more time he spent with them all, as divergent and different as any people could be from one another, he began to wonder why they all put up with one another. Why _hadn't_ anyone turned Anders in yet? He watched as Varric, Isabela, and even Fenris take turns making sure nothing horrendous happened to Merrill in the alienage at night; he saw Aveline cover for Anders more than once, and Merrill bring him some uncommon herb or flower he needed for one of his medicines. Time and time again, Hawke went after Fenris to diffuse his anger, or to speak with him privately, and, invariably, he would be back with them the next time Hawke needed or wanted him to come along.

And then it finally dawned on him. He was listening to the wordless chanting of the sisters during compline, revering Andraste's descent into death as the rest of the initiates and laysisters readied for bed, and Sebastian finally understood why they all stayed together the way they did. They were all notes in a scale--sometimes they harmonised with one another, sometimes they were discordant. No matter how they interacted with one another, however, it all came back to that first note, the one that tied them all together--the most important note of all: Hawke. She was the beginning and the end for all of them, and she kept them all working together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> __  
>  [tonic reference](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tonic_%28music%29)   
> 


	10. Follow

The rhythm of battle and blood was truly a dance she knew well, Sebastian silently agreed. He loosed an arrow at a man trying to come up behind her, and he fell with a strangled cry. Hawke whirled in time to see him writhe once on the ground, noted the fletching on the arrow, and tossed a look and a grin over her shoulder at him. He felt his own face split into a mirror of hers.

Some would call her bloodthirsty—the nobles loved gossip, and many whispered back and forth about their new Champion’s shady beginnings here in the City of Chains. She certainly excelled at her trade, and her trade was dealt with two curved axes. This woman had brought down the killers of his family with those axes, and he could not deny his wish to have been there. Elthina may not condone killing, but Sebastian had been trained in the ways of war, and he remembered the world outside the Chantry, even when it seemed Elthina did not. He lived in a haven, yes, but Hawke did not have that luxury.

Perhaps she was bloodthirsty. Perhaps she was merely surviving the only way she ever knew. Either way, the more time Sebastian spent with her, the more he never wanted to leave her side. Blood was on his hands as much as hers, now, and he couldn’t deny the satisfaction he felt. He couldn’t deny that, more often than not, Hawke was helping people with those deadly blades of hers. Some people fought their battles with words, some people pulled the strings of others. Hawke had always been a fan of the more direct route.

Of all the people he had known in his life, Hawke was the most honest with herself. She knew what she did, why she did it. She knew who she was, and didn’t try to hide it, didn’t pretend she was otherwise. He, on the other hand, was a weathervane, turning from one side to the other by questions. Perhaps Hawke was the strong wind he had been waiting for. If she was a storm, and he a leaf, he would gladly let her toss him as she would.

He didn’t know if it was the right thing, in the end, but even when he disagreed with her decisions, he never felt conflicted in following her. She went the way she always had been going, and he felt no need to diverge from the path she created in her wake. It may not be the right thing, but it certainly felt better than what he had been doing.


	11. Music

Everyone always talks about the smell, the stink, the reek. Or the swill, the watered ale, the too-potent rum or dwarven liquor. Or the patrons—drunk, passed out, loud, easy. But the first thing he had noticed was the constant sound of music behind the currents of conversation. It was an undertow that pulled at him every time he went in with Hawke, or stopped by at Varric or Fenris or Isabela’s request for Wicked Grace (they still maintained he had some sort of luck and were determined to beat him). Sometimes it was a lively jig or reel, sometimes a slow lament. It reminded him of Starkhaven and his past, made him think about his future.

He was constantly tapping his heel to the floor, keeping time with the beat under the table. Sometimes he hummed along when he knew the melody well enough, but once when Isabela had caught him at it he blushed so fiercely he made sure never to do it within hearing of anyone he knew again.

No matter what ill was said of the Hanged Man—and there was plenty—it would always be a fond place for Sebastian. He could look past all its faults for the music it created a haven for.


	12. Strap

It was funny how sometimes things were all held together by just one strip, one piece. Life and death both hung from the strength of that piece. Without it, nothing could be gained and nothing would be lost. It was something his grandfather had spoken of time and time again, and the utter importance of it was ingrained in the undertow of Sebastian’s rationale. At times he seemed to obsess over that one little piece, making sure it still held, making sure it was still strong as ever. It was not something Isabela would ever understand, nor Fenris, or Aveline, or any of the others. Not even Hawke, though from no lack of trying. Oddly enough, the only one who understood the importance of the strap that held a quiver was Varric. None of the others used a bow—crossbow or recurve made no difference in this instance—and would never understand the importance of having arrows. Broken strap, no reliable quiver. No quiver, no arrows. No arrows, no ranged support. His friends’ lives depended on that strap, and he would no sooner let that fail them than he would kill them himself.


	13. Promise

There were some things in this world, Sebastian Vael decided grimly, that you must steel yourself against. Cold and driving rain, when death came to loved ones, and temptation in female form. Temptation wielding two long, slender blades of terror; temptation with the name Hawke.

He had not been accompanying her for long before that old heat he used to know so well began pooling in the pit of his gut. He did not fail to notice the way his heart pounded when he watched her move--fighting or not--and begrudgingly equated the sudden dry spells his mouth underwent to those piercing cerulean pools that passed for her eyes. Sometimes her grin, too.

There was more than a small part of him that whispered dark, secret things he could do to her--under different circumstances, he would have listened to that voice. That was a different time in his life, one that he vowed to leave behind. They were personal vows now, since his family's murder. They had never done much to endear themselves to him, but they were his family, and had he been a better son, things might have turned out differently. He could not make amends with them himself, so he tried to atone to their memory by permanently turning his back on who he thought he once was.

For a while, it had worked, and he kept that oath to his family, to himself. But he was only a man, and he was beginning to believe the Maker made men in order to break them by making women like Hawke.


	14. Return

He watched the flames of a dozen candles flicker before him and decided not enough people in this city paid respects to their dead. He picked up a long stick of incense and held it over a burning wick until the tip caught fire. Using that, he lit a candle of his own, thinking of his grandfather years before. After a moment's hesitation, Sebastian lit four other candles. Twisting the incense in his fingers and raising it to eye level, he watched the flame build before extinguishing it with a sharp breath. The smoke curled upward in tendrils, long and lean fingers reaching for the vaulted ceiling of the Chantry.

"Well, at least I know why you always smell like incense," someone very familiar said behind him.

He buried the base of the incense in a trough of sand set in front of and below the shelves holding the candles. Only when he was finished did he turn, putting a ghost of a smile on his face. He knew she liked to see him smile, so he tried to, even when he had no real reason to do so.

"Hawke," he greeted her. "I suppose it very well could lend a hand to that." He noted the distant look on her face, the distracted way she fiddled with a leather string on one of her pouches. "What is it?"

Her eyes darted to one side then the other, never coming to rest fully on him. She looked at the candles behind him. "Not too many there, huh?" Her voice was quiet and she walked up to the shelves, standing beside him. She reached out to touch the flames of the candles he lit. "Who was the first one for?"

Her question caught him off-guard. "My grandfather," he replied, reserved. He hadn't mentioned much of his grandfather to anyone, and it felt almost taboo to do so.

She nodded. "He meant a lot to you," was all she said. He watched her bite her lip and sensed she wanted to say something. He waited. "Sebastian," she began, haltingly. "Can we talk?"

"Of course, Hawke. We can always do that."

She finally lifted her gaze to him. "I mean, somewhere more... less public."

He regarded her with a smoothed expression before inclining his head to her. "Of course. Follow me." He indicated the way with a small motion of his hand before leading her through the halls of the Chantry. He wasn't sure if any of the rooms devoted to study would be better if it was something she preferred to be uninterrupted,  so he decided his personal cell would suffice. He took her through the curving stone hallways of the back of the Chantry, devoid of the lay sisters and mothers that were so prominent in the vestibule.

"Taking me into the bowels of the Chantry, Sebastian? If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to do something... unsavory," Hawke quipped as they walked, but he could hear the tiny waver in her tone.

He chuckled, though there was little real humour in it. "No, Hawke, not exactly. Whatever you wish to talk about seems serious. I thought you might like a place where there was no chance of interruption." He stopped by a plain wooden door and opened it. "Which is what this is."

She entered before him, looking around the room and taking everything in. Tossing a glance back over her shoulder at him, she asked, "Is this your room?"

He nodded, shutting the door behind him as he followed her in. "Aye. I hope that's not a problem...?"

She shook her head and went over to his bed, sitting down on it. "No, no. I don't really think you're going to do something," she told him. That got a real smile out of him.

"I didn't think you did, Hawke." He watched her fingers fidget around themselves as she  avoided looking at him. There was something different about her demeanour, he realised suddenly. She looked tired, like the facade she always wore was cracking. But why let her guard down in front of him?

He gave her a moment, but when she didn't say anything, he spoke up. "Hawke? Is everything all right? What did you want to talk about?"

She bit her bottom lip again. "I was out by the Wounded Coast earlier today." She sounded so small, Sebastian wasn't sure what to make of it. "Before that, I was in the Undercity."

He tilted his head at her, questioning look at his face.

She took a breath. "Are you familiar with Saarebas?" He shook his head. "They're essentially Qunari mages. But how they're treated..." Her brow knit. "It makes any given Circle look like a sunny stroll through a field of flowers, and I don't care how much Anders would argue with that. They're bound--literally bound. Their mouths are sewn shut, and they're controlled by some sort of magic rod."

Sebastian made a soft noise. "That... That's utterly terrible."

Hawke nodded. "Yeah. I was leading one out of the city." His brows went up. "A sister in the Chantry was in a charitable mood and hired me to escort a Saarebas to the Wounded Coast. The only thing is... There was a group of Qunari there when we arrived. They wanted to kill him for being unsupervised or some such thing." She made a few broad motions with her hand, suddenly casual again. "We had a bit of a disagreement over that, and they ended up attacking us. We took care of them, and I thought to let this Saarebas choose his own way." Hawke stopped short and her eyes fell to the ground.

"What happened?" Sebastian gently pushed.

"He--he chose to death over freedom." Her eyes were wide now, with a haunted look behind them. "I... I don't understand, Sebastian. He was free. He could go. He didn't have to be shackled any longer. Why would he set himself on fire instead?"

In an instant, Sebastian was striding over to her and kneeling on the ground in front of her. He rested a hand on her knee, looked her straight in the face. "Hawke. I can't claim to understand the Qun, but what little I do know is that it gives those who follow it a sense of purpose. A fulfillment they wouldn't otherwise have." She tilted her face to him and their eyes caught. "It's a sort of conviction that lets people sacrifice themselves without a moment's hesitation."

She searched his face without saying anything. "It just... It just seemed so pointless."

"There are things, beliefs, that are beyond what we know within ourselves. Even within the Chantry there are those who hold the same type of conviction followers of the Qun appear to have." A thought occurred to him. "Hawke... When did you get back from the Wounded Coast?"

"Not too long ago. Maybe an hour? Why?"

He squinted his eyes at her a bit. "Did you come right here after you returned?"

"I--well, yes."

He let his hand slip from her knee and sat back on his heels. "Why tell me all this, Hawke? Why come to me of all your other, closer friends?"

She didn't answer him for a moment. "I don't know," she finally replied, slowly. "Maybe I feel you'd understand like none of them would." She shook her head. "They'd all listen, sure... but sometimes I feel like they wouldn't truly  _hear_ anything. But you... You're different." She sat up and tilted her head to the ceiling. "I'm not devout, which I'm sure you've noticed. I never used to come here. But now... now I feel like I can speak and really be heard."

"Not by Andraste," Sebastian added for her. He wasn't quite sure where she was going with this, but he wasn't sure he wanted her to do stop coming, either.

"No, not by Andraste. Sebastian, I--" She cut herself off and smiled down at him. "Thanks for listening to me."

His returned smile was more bemused than anything. "Of course, Hawke. Any time you wish, I will be here to listen to you."

A secret sort of smile tugged at her lips and made it all the way to her eyes. "I just might keep coming back, then. It's nice knowing... knowing that you're here."

"Always, Hawke. Always."


	15. Relief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **continuation of[return](http://archiveofourown.org/works/908819/chapters/1760022)**

He hadn't wanted to believe what Hawke said about one of the Chantry mothers was true, but here she was, spouting out intolerance and hate right in front of him, and Sebastian had no choice but to admit Mother Petrice was everything Hawke had described. What was worse, now they were forced to fight a dozen or so civilians Petrice had somehow brainwashed into believing what she said was the truth. He did his best to knock them out, or only wound them, rather than kill, but he wasn't entirely sure he succeeded in doing so. Maker forgive him for any deaths he caused, but he had to defend himself--those attacking him did not seem as inclined as he to hold back in their violence.

He did not see Hawke during the battle, and wasn't sure he wanted to--with her twin-bladed fighting style, he could not see how she could pull her punches, as it were. He proved right--when the fighting was over (and it could have hardly been called little more than a skirmish, anyhow, civilians against well-seasoned fighters), her face and armour were spattered with blood.

And then Grand Cleric Elthina was there, and Sebastian felt himself all at once want to straighten and skulk into the shadows. He was his own man now, he had to keep reminding himself. The Chantry was still sanctuary to him, but he was starting to see the wisdom Elthina displayed in denying him the right to renew his vows.

His attention was caught, however, at the words that came from Petrice.

"Defiling the sacred grounds with every step they take," the Mother was saying.

"Death is indeed around every corner. It is as you predicted," the Grand Cleric said with a note of disappointment, and... something else? "All too well."

But then Hawke approached, still covered in blood, and confronted both Chantry women, and told them the truth of what happened. Sebastian had only heard about how Petrice set up Hawke to be killed by the group of Qunari on the Wounded Coast by delivering their mage, their Saarabas, back to them. Hawke had confided in him that the Qunari had chosen his own death over being freed, but then Hawke had told him who hired her to do the job, and what she thought the reason behind it was. Hearing such an accusation had angered him, but seeing it proven true enraged him even more. He struggled to listen to their conversation and not stare murderously at Petrice. How dare she, in the Maker's own house? _To the Viscount's son_?

"Seamus was murdered here in your name, to frame the Qunari," she said, not deigning to direct her attention to Mother Petrice. Sebastian could see Petrice's face rosy in colour.

"Well," said Elthina, turning to look back at the Revered Mother. "I am sure my name wouldn't like that very much. Petrice?"

Petrice sputtered out at the Grand Cleric--something about losing people to the Qun--but Elthina merely shook her head at the other woman.

"Then we must pray for them as we do any other," was her reply. She turned back to confirm Hawke was sure, and then told Petrice that she would be answering to the law of Kirkwall.

It didn't seem like enough to Sebastian. He had met Seamus on a number of occasions when the Viscount had been able to hold audience with him about contacting people about his family and Starkhaven, and had spoken with the young man on a number of occasions. He was the reason Sebastian had been able to talk to Hawke in the aftermath of the Qunari she escorted choosing death over freedom. Seamus had been a sympathetic and intelligent young man, and Sebastian wished he had been more like the Viscount's son when he was younger; he would have made an excellent Viscount one day. There was no need for him to die outside of Mother Petrice's selfish and utterly misguided motivations.

Despite himself, his draw hand itched, and he clenched it into a fist to still himself. Drawing in a breath to quell the anger within him as he watched Elthina make her way back up the stairs, he was surprised when an arrow with blood-red fletching pierced Petrice's chest, horror and pain twisting her features. She fell to her knees as Hawke, himself, Aveline, and Fenris all jumped back, whirling and preparing for another attack. From the shadows of a doorway that Sebastian knew to lead to a storage cellar, another arrow whistled through the smokey air of the chantry to impale Petrice's forehead, crowing her like a gory unicorn of legend. She was propelled back onto the chantry floor with a heavy thud, catching the Grand Cleric's attention, and she paused in her ascent.

Out of the doorway, a broad Qunari stepped, metal helm covering his face. He hooked a bow behind his back and looked at Hawke full in the face.

"We protect those of the Qun," he told them. "We do not abandon our own."

Without waiting for an answer, the Qunari archer turned and walked out of the Chantry, as if he were not expecting any rebuttal, or any of them to follow him. Of course, they did not, and Sebastian was surprised to feel a cooling sense of relief spread through his chest like fingers. He quickly glanced up at the stairs, ready to help the Grand Cleric should she need any, but she only paused for a moment to say, "Please. Send for Viscount Dumar," before continuing upward. It was almost as if she had expected such a thing to happen, so calm was her reaction.

Sebastian's eyes drifted back to Petrice's body in the moments before Hawke called him to join them in going back to the Keep, and found himself thinking it was both a good and an unsatisfactory thing he didn't have to be the one to loose the arrow on her in the end. He wasn't sure how he felt about his conflicting emotions concerning Petrice's death, but at least she could no longer brainwash any more innocents. Sighing, he picked his way around the rest of the fallen Kirkwallers to join Hawke.

Perhaps his place truly was no longer within these walls.


End file.
